


bruised knees

by indirectHonesty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, first fic posted in three years, what even is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22067533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indirectHonesty/pseuds/indirectHonesty
Summary: He’s got bruises on his knees and raw skin peeling on his knuckles but nothing to show for it. No winning title, no championship won for it. He’s what they called troubled - the teachers do, the guidance counsellor does, the girls who whisper rumours like it’s second nature. He’s crawling down the lonely hallways, sneakers barely squeaking against the linoleum, his dark eyes shaking like a bad memory resurfacing.And you think to yourself that this is it. This is really what life comes down to.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dave Strider, John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Kudos: 18





	bruised knees

He’s got bruises on his knees and raw skin peeling on his knuckles but nothing to show for it. No winning title, no championship won for it. He’s what they called troubled - the teachers do, the guidance counsellor does, the girls who whisper rumours like it’s second nature. He’s crawling down the lonely hallways, sneakers barely squeaking against the linoleum, his dark eyes shaking like a bad memory resurfacing.  
And you think to yourself that this is it. This is really what life comes down to.  
Life favours the good, the fortunate, the ones who try. And who’s to say that he never tried? Brokenness has always fascinated you. You’re the one that calls out to the strays, the one that shuns the pedigrees. The one that falls for the ones as fragile as powdered snow.  
_Don’t do it, John,_ his brother says to you as you watch, his words no longer dripping with the transcendent irony he had sought after so long ago.  
And you watch as he scrapes along, freckled shoulders hunched, his scarlet knuckles running through his spiked hair. His car keys jingle in his pocket. You heard that he bleached and dyed his hair himself. Then he did the same to his brother - your friend.  
You’ve seen him behind the wheel before. Once at a party you had no business attending - the one that his brother invited you to, mostly out of sympathy. Some girls had been coaxing him to take them one a spin around the quiet neighbourhood. Quiet meant that there were no other cars. Meant that he could reach a decent speed to make an impact, a memory to look forward to. He owns a 2002 Jaguar and polishes that silver animal like there’s no tomorrow.  
He acquiesced to their demands. You had watched him drive off. He and the girls returned safely, all in one piece - he hadn’t been drinking. Not then. Not ever.  
You can’t look away. _Do what?_  
_Whatever you were thinking._  
He walks past. Glances at you out of the corner of his eye. You look back, unblinking.  
The second time you saw him behind the wheel was when you were in the passenger seat. The seatbelt only held you in place because he told you to. Nameless, he had been. But then he told you his name: Dirk. You liked the way it rolled of your tongue. Then he drove.  
That night, he told you a lot of things. You know he wants to go to university to study robotics, but you’ve seen his slim hands sew. Robotics will pull in the money. Art fuels the mind. He asked you next, what you wanted to do with your life. You tell him you didn’t know. You still don’t.  
_It’s cool,_ he said, fingerless gloves at the wheel, eyes on the road. _You still have two years to decide._  
Two years is a long time.  
But you weren’t thinking about anything in particular until his brother said something. That’s when you had begun to thought about Dirk’s fingers against the leather of the wheel. His fingers against something else.  
Then he tells you about his ex-boyfriend.   
_You know,_ he says. _Your cousin._  
You do know. And you had told him so in that car of his. That night, you tell him that you look insanely similar to him. Genetics had often astounded you, to the point where you couldn't understand a single thing past Punnett squares.   
And when those words run through Dirk's mind, you can almost see the clockwork whirring like a perfect storm.  
_I know._  
Dirk had said it in a way that had pulled you in that time, on the second occurrence you had seen him at the wheel. It was delightful. Promising. Though you weren't sure what kind of promises were being made, whether the contracts were along the same vein as the ones devils drew up. But that night, you hadn't really been thinking about anything. Not really.   
_I promise,_ you say to his brother as you shut the metal door of your locker shut. _I wasn’t thinking about anything._  
His brother doesn’t look like he believes you. Good. No one should. But still, even though his brother walks off without looking back, you stay there, back pressed against the cold of the locker. He does interest you. More than it should.  
His brokenness appeals. He’s the stray. The missing piece from a jigsaw puzzle. An off-kilter hand of an antique clock, ticking steadily on with a jump of a heartbeat.  
He appears again, a head poking around the corner. Spiked hair, dyed blond but his dark roots are coming through again. Then he rounds the edge, bag hanging from one shoulder. Above his narrow nose, his golden eyes are taunting, irresistible. Below, there’s a smirk gracing his lips. He beckons with a careful finger. You follow, your sneakers mimicking his, squeaking against the sterile linoleum.  
It’s his last year at this godforsaken school, a jungle of concrete and metal, filled to the teeth with shallow girls and abusive boys. And when he leaves with that 2002 Jaguar to fulfil his cold, empty, robotic dreams with only his wishful thinking and fading bruises to show for it, it’ll just be you. Roaming those hallways.  
You’ll be the one with the bruised knees.  
And his tragic, irony-obsessed brother - your one true best friend - will be the one in front of you.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I even attempt to re-write 'The Perks of Being an Omega'? Because whichever god out there that's listening to my inner turmoil knows that I skimmed over it the other day and almost cried out of shock and self-hatred. But you know, for some inane reason, I still laughed at some of my own jokes.  
> Tragic.


End file.
